


Shore to Shore

by sunsetmog



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Community: help_japan, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just—Brendon isn't good at keeping people. He never has been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shore to Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slantendicular](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=slantendicular).



> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/66490.html) in September 2011.
> 
> Written for slantendicular for help_japan. slantendicular gave me the best prompts when she won me, and I've been excited to write them ever since I first received them. This is the first of her fics, a Brendon/Shane fic where Brendon is new to relationships, and new to being someone's boyfriend, and he doesn't know what he's doing. Hope it's what you wanted, bb. ♥
> 
> Title comes from the Johnny Flynn song of the same name. Thank you to fictionalaspect for the beta, and to hermette for audiencing as I was writing. Thanks also to harborshore and knight_tracer for reading this when it was just a baby ficlet and for their encouragement, and to anoneknewmoose for sending me links when I needed them. ♥

(three weeks, two days, eleven hours and approximately thirteen minutes)

Brendon has been dating Shane for three weeks, two days, eleven hours and approximately thirteen minutes. He knows this not because he has a weird spy role as an undercover timekeeper, but because Shane had kissed him for the first time just as Brendon was in the middle of suggesting they time each other racing around the back yard so that Dylan had something to chase after. He'd yelled _go_ at the same time as pressing starton the stopwatch on his phone, but Shane hadn't gone. 

Shane had, instead, leaned over and curled his hand around the back of Brendon's neck and kissed him, swallowing Brendon's muffled _mmph_ and sliding his hands into Brendon's hair. 

It had taken Brendon about two seconds to figure out what the fuck was going on, and another two seconds after that to remember that he could kiss Shane back. 

"Fuck," Shane had said, afterwards. "I thought you were going to turn me down. I've wanted to do that for fucking forever."

_Huh_ , Brendon had thought, as he shrugged off his shirt and let Shane lead him upstairs. He'd wanted it too, but he'd never thought it had even been an option. He'd been kind of a dumbass, clearly. 

Brendon has still not pressed stop on his stopwatch. Sometimes he flicks through to the app, and watches the numbers crawl by, second after second after second, and he thinks, _he hasn't broken up with me yet_. 

It feels like a countdown to the end, which is weird, because the numbers keep on climbing up and up, which isn't the way countdowns are supposed to go. It's just—Brendon isn't good at keeping people. He never has been.

(three weeks, three days, five hours and -)

"Hi, kiddo," his mom says, as he picks up the phone. 

"Mom," he says, but he grins anyway. "How's it hanging?"

"Brendon," his mom says. "How am I even supposed to answer that?"

His mom has never been down with the cool kids. Brendon sometimes wonders if that's why he had no friends in high school before the band came along. 

_No,_ he thinks, _that was all me_. "I'm hanging tough," Brendon tells her. "Like New Kids on the Block."

"Sometimes it's like you're from another planet," his mom says, but she's laughing. "Are you busy? Can we talk about Thanksgiving?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Sure," he says, because it's barely September. He sprawls out on the couch and rubs his socked feet over the arm of the seat; Dylan pads in and curls up under his knees. Shane's dog has the weirdest ability to pick out the one place in the room guaranteed to make Brendon uncomfortable. Brendon scratches her between the ears and she whines, happily. Dylan's awesome.

He's only just finishing up on the phone when Shane comes in from the store. "Hey, dude," Brendon says, following Shane into the kitchen and dropping his phone down on the counter. He pokes Shane in the side. "Did you bring me anything?"

"Toilet paper," Shane says. "And I got new blades for your razor. Yours are like, totally blunt."

"Only a little bit," Brendon says, sunnily. "Did you buy anything fun?"

"Condoms," Shane says, with a grin, and Brendon presses him back against the kitchen cabinets, hands under his shirt. 

"You buy the best gifts," Brendon says, and rubs his nose against Shane's jaw. "You want to test them out now?"

Shane kisses him. Brendon really likes the way Shane's kisses taste. He kisses Shane again, just because he can. "I bought stuff for the freezer," Shane says. "Help me put them away and then you can fuck me anywhere you want to."

"You're the best fucking guy in the world," Brendon says, fervently. He tugs open the freezer door and starts pulling out drawers at random. "Give me shit, come on, we have a fucking schedule to keep to."

Shane just snorts, but starts going through his bags and pulling out waffles and frozen pizzas and those weird-ass ice cream things that Shane likes. There are the popsicles that Brendon likes, too. Brendon figures the only reason Shane bought them is because last week Brendon had spent a whole fifteen minutes slowly licking one, sticky raspberry juice running down his fingers and down his chin, and Shane had managed ten minutes before he'd started jerking off. 

"Who were you on the phone to?" Shane asks, dumping an armful of frozen foods into Brendon's hands. 

"My mom," Brendon says. "Asking me about Thanksgiving, what the fuck. I just told her I'd be there for all of it and I'll figure the travel stuff out later. I'll do it next month, or something. Nearer to actual Thanksgiving. Isn't it still August?"

"Oh," Shane says, with a weird look on his face. "You're going home for Thanksgiving?"

Brendon shrugs, trying to squeeze frozen waffles into the corner of one full freezer drawer. Shane just keeps on buying food. Brendon wonders if Shane's trying to feed him up. "Well, yeah," he says. "Is that a problem?"

"Uh," Shane says, and shrugs. "I was just, I don't know. I was going to ask if you wanted to come back to my mom and dad's place, that's all. It's okay."

"Huh," Brendon says, because now he feels like a total dick. It hadn't even occurred to him that Shane might have wanted to do something together. He's never had a boyfriend - or a girlfriend - that had ever involved having plans over holiday weekends. 

He's never really had a boyfriend or a girlfriend before. Just some people he's had sex with, sometimes more than once. One or two that he'd called girlfriends and boyfriends, but nothing that came close to _this_. 

"Sorry," Brendon says. "Do you want me to cancel? I just said yes and didn't think. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Shane says. He shrugs, ruefully. "I'll just have to ask you earlier next time."

_Next time_ , Brendon thinks, and thinks about the countdown clock on his phone, the numbers cycling steadily up. "Sorry," he says, again. 

"No worries," Shane says, and Brendon feels kind of shitty, because it hadn't even crossed his mind that maybe he should have asked Shane first. He hasn't even told his parents that he and Shane are dating yet, because secretly he thinks it isn't going to last long enough for it to be a thing. Brendon always finds a way to screw everything up. "It's not a big deal. Here, find a space for the hash browns and then get the fuck away from that freezer and make out with me."

Brendon goes easily, letting Shane push him up against the door to the fridge, hands in his hair. He masks his unease at being caught screwing up by kissing Shane hard, hoping that if he can just fuck him well enough and hard enough then Shane will forget that Brendon doesn't have a fucking clue what he's doing. 

~*~

(five weeks, six days)

When Brendon comes off stage he's high as a fucking kite, adrenaline coursing through him, pounding hard and loud beneath his skin. He wants to fuck, he wants to drink, he wants to stay up all night and never sleep again. He wants to jerk off. He wants to come. He fucking loves playing on stage, loves it so much it hurts. 

"Hey," Zack says, handing him a towel. "You look like you're melting."

"I am," Brendon says, grinning. "Fuck, that was awesome. Wasn't that awesome? We were totally awesome."

Zack just laughs. "Come on," he says. "I think they just brought buffalo wings and all that crap into the dressing room."

"I could eat a fucking horse," Brendon declares, plastering himself to Zack's back. "Dude, did you hear the crowd? They ate us up."

"And now we're going to eat all that fucking chicken," Spencer says, clapping a hand to Brendon's shoulder. "And drink all the beer."

"Oh, the beer," Brendon says. "I love beer. Let's have beer."

Spencer just snorts. "Brendon," he says. Festival crowds can be hit or miss. They're not the same as playing tiny club shows, where everyone in the audience is a fan and knows all the words. Festivals have fans, sure they do, but there's always a good proportion of the audience who only know the singles. But today, the atmosphere's electric and Brendon's riding a high like no other. He loves his job. "Don't eat all the chicken," Spencer says. "I gotta go call Haley. Leave me some."

Huh, Brendon thinks, and wonders if he should call Shane. He is really kind of craptastic at this dating thing; half the time he doesn't know what he's doing, the other half of the time he's doing something wrong. There's an ache in his chest, somewhere under the adrenaline, and it feels like the space where Shane is. "You think I should call Shane?" he asks. 

Spencer grins. "I'm going to go lock myself in a bathroom and jerk off," he says. "You go do what you have to do, dude."

"Fuck," Zack says. "Like, there are things I need to know, and things I don't, and your phone sex habits are not on the fucking list."

Brendon wants to come. Performing is like sex. Like awesome, mind-blowing _public_ sex. "I'm gonna go call Shane," he says, already imagining jerking off in a bathroom with Shane's voice down the phone. He really wants to hear Shane's voice. It feels like a pulse beat beneath his skin, a repeating _Shane-Shane-Shane-Shane._

"I'm going to eat all of your chicken," Zack yells after them, as Brendon loops an arm around Spencer's neck and clings to his back. "Jesus, don't get fucking lost."

Brendon just grins, and half-heartedly complains when Spencer shrugs him off. Spencer takes the first disabled stall they find, which is a pain in the fucking ass because now Brendon's gotten the idea for jerking off he kind of wants to do it right he fuck now. It takes him a while to find another one, and when he does, he locks the door and unzips his fly, even before he's dialed Shane's number. 

Shane sounds surprised when he answers the phone, which Brendon thinks is weird. 

"Hey," Shane says. "Is everything okay?"

"Sure it is," Brendon says. "I just came off stage. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Shane says. "How was the show?"

"Fucking awesome," Brendon says. "You sound weird. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, B," Shane says, letting out a breath. "It's fucking good to hear your voice. I just—I didn't expect you to call, that's all. I'm at the store."

"It's late," Brendon says, trying to figure out if there was a time difference between here and home. "Why are you at the store this late? Did we run out of food? Did the apocalypse come?"

"I don't know," Shane says. "I was bored. The house was empty. I figured we always need food."

Brendon swallows. He wants to say, _I miss you_. He's still burning hot and his heart is still racing but he kind of doesn't want to jerk off so urgently anymore. He tips his head back against the wall, his dick hanging out of his pants, and doesn't touch himself. "What are you buying?" he asks, instead, because he doesn't know how to figure this boyfriend stuff out. He really, really has no clue what he's doing. Maybe he should have called Shane more, or something. He's pretty sure Haley isn't at the store right now. She's having phone sex with Spencer in a bathroom stall. 

"Rice," Shane says. "And those weird pop tarts you like."

"You hate pop tarts," Brendon says, even though he tries not to admit to all the things he knows about Shane that he hasn't revealed yet.

"Yeah, well. The kitchen doesn't smell like them when I get up anymore," Shane tells him, and Brendon's breath feels tight in his chest. "I figured, I don't know. Maybe I'd start to like them or something."

_You miss me_ , Brendon thinks, over and over. _You miss me_. _You **miss** me_. 

"Anyway, I bought some of those weird yellow tomatoes," Shane says. "And I think you stole all my socks again. What do you do with them all?"

"I'm coming home soon," Brendon says, abruptly. 

Shane waits a beat. "I know," he says. 

"It's just—" Brendon starts. "I really want to fuck you right now." It isn't enough to make his chest feel any less tight but it's a start. 

"Yeah," Shane says, letting out a long, slow breath. "I want that too, B."

"Should I have called more?" Brendon asks. "Like, I didn't know. I never know."

"It's not like I'm not going to answer the phone when you call," Shane tells him. "I'm pretty much always going to fucking answer."

"That's not—" Brendon feels really frustrated, and kind of like he's standing on the edge of a precipice, looking out. He wants to jump, but he can't figure out how. He wants someone to push him, make it easy for him. He settles for, "That doesn't tell me anything."

Shane doesn't say anything for a moment. "Do you want to call me more?" he says, finally. 

_Yes_ , Brendon thinks. Then, _I think_. "Do you want me to call you more?" he asks, which is the kind of thing that drives Shane crazy. 

"Brendon," Shane says. He sighs. "I'm not—I'm not trying to change you. I knew what it was going to be like before I jumped you, you know. I'm trying pretty hard not to scare you off."

"I'm not scared," Brendon says, carefully. He taps his fingers against the wall of the stall, and doesn't think about the countdown clock on his phone. He tries not to look at it too often anymore, because the numbers scare him, even if Shane doesn't. It feels like it's just going to hurt more, screwing this up when the numbers are higher. "I just don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to be doing. I've got my fucking dick out right now, you know? I don't even know if I'm supposed to put it away to talk to you. Is it weird?"

"Fuck, Brendon," Shane says, tiredly. "It's not weird. Unless you're on fucking stage. Then it's weird. Now it's just hot, but you're there and I'm here and you might not be scared but maybe I am, okay? You're my best fucking friend and I kissed you without knowing whether you were ever going to speak to me again."

"Spencer and Haley are having phone sex right now," Brendon says, because he feels pretty shitty about the fact that Spencer's his best friend and not Shane. Shane's just—Shane's the person he's so scared of losing that he feels like he's deliberately screwing things up just so it'll hurt less when Shane finally wises up and breaks the fuck up with him. He plays with his dick a bit, under the pretence of putting it away again. 

"Yeah, well," Shane says. "We're not them. And I'm at the store, and you're there, and you're not here to bail me out when they call the police after they catch me jerking off in the rice aisle."

Brendon doesn't say anything for a minute. "I just wanted to talk to you," he says, after a while. "It felt so good, coming off stage. It felt like I was flying. I wanted to just—I wanted to tell you that. That's why I called. You're the person I want to tell that to." He wonders if it's supposed to feel like he's slowly tearing himself open, piece by piece. He doesn't really know what he'll find underneath it all. 

"I really miss you," Shane says, softly. 

"I miss your dick," Brendon says. He means, _I miss you, and your face, and you, but mostly you_. 

"Yeah," Shane says. "If I call you when I get home, do you want to show it to me on the webcam?"

"We're going to a club," Brendon says. "At least, I think we are."

"Okay," Shane says. "No worries."

"No," Brendon says. "It doesn't matter. It's just a club. I'll go back to the bus."

"You don't have to," Shane says. "I'm not going to try and stop you from going out, Brendon."

"No, I want to," Brendon says. "I can go out anytime." He doesn't know what to do with the way he feels inside, caught up and turned on and stupid and sad and something else that might be love. He just—he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. Shane sounds tired and kind of pissed and Brendon thinks it's probably at him but whether it's for one precise thing or just everything, Brendon doesn't know. 

"You just want sex," Shane says, but he's laughing and he sounds like he doesn't mean it. It still hurts, though, because Brendon doesn't just want sex. If he just wanted sex he'd have it with someone who didn't matter to him, who wouldn't call him on his shit. Who wouldn't call him, full stop.

"I want to have sex with you," Brendon says. He sounds hurt, even though he doesn't mean to. 

Shane sighs. "You know where we shouldn't be having this conversation?" he says. "In the grocery store. Wherever the fuck you are. Maybe we should—let's just talk when you get home, okay?"

Brendon stills. "Like—I shouldn't call you until I'm back? Or—" He thinks about the countdown clock, and wonders if it's flashing its way towards the end. He wants to go back to ten minutes ago and not call Shane at all. His heart hurts. Brendon's so shitty at this. 

"I didn't mean that," Shane says. "Look, I'm really tired, okay? Our dog just spent the whole night throwing up all over the hallway and I miss you, and I really hate these stupid pop tarts and I kind of just want to watch TV and hang out with you, and you're not fucking here and now we're just, I don't know. Talking in circles."

"Is Dylan okay?" Brendon asks, because that's the one thing he knows how to deal with. He loves that dog. Their dog. _Our dog_ , he thinks, and he closes his eyes. 

"Some dumbass left the remains of their picnic at the park last night," Shane says. "Our stupid dog forgot that tomatoes make her sick. She's okay, though. I let her watch _Bolt_ this morning."

"People are dumbasses," Brendon says, because some idiot made their dog sick and Brendon kind of wants to hit them with sticks. "Fuck, Shane," he says. "I want to suck your dick."

Shane laughs. "Yeah," he says. "Right back at you."

"Are there people around?" Brendon asks, because the idea makes him feel strangely turned on. 

"Yep," Shane says. "Grocery store's suddenly the place to hang out in the middle of the night."

Brendon's stomach clenches. The idea of all those people around Shane, not knowing that Brendon's telling him how much he wants to blow him. "I want to go down on my knees for you," he says, without thinking too much about whether this is okay. 

"Fuck," Shane says. "Brendon."

"I want to fuck you," Brendon says. "Would you let me if I was there?"

"In the dog food aisle?" Shane says. "No. In the house, yes."

"I just want to jerk off," Brendon says. He fondles his dick a little, but he doesn't really feel like he's in the mood anymore. He feels caught up and stretched out, pissed at himself and like there's a desperate itch beneath his skin that only Shane can scratch. He doesn't like feeling like he's tied to anyone, because it just hurts more when they're not around anymore. It kind of makes him want to go out and fuck someone else, only the idea of deliberately screwing this up more than he already is doing sort of makes his chest hurt. 

"Call me when you get in later," Shane says. "When you get in from the club. I want to hear."

Brendon whines, just a little, because he's hardening in his fist and he wants to jerk off now. "Want to come on your face," he says, in a rush, because sometimes there is all this stuff in his head that he wants out there but doesn't know how to ask. 

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Shane says. He lowers his voice. "You can't tell me that in the _grocery store_ ," he says. Brendon opens his mouth to apologize but Shane doesn't let him speak. "Fuck, I knew there was a reason I was dating you."

"Other than for my awesome, manly body, obviously," Brendon says, a little weakly. He laughs, loudly, and wonders, not for the first time, why anyone bothers with him at all. 

Shane snorts, then says, voice muffled, "I'm pretty fucking hot for your body, B. And the coming. In fact, you should come home right the fuck now."

Brendon lets out a breath. "I wasn't talking about that kind of coming."

"I know," Shane says. "Come home and come on my face."

"Oh god," Brendon says. "Fuck, can we just forget talking for a while and let me just jerk off?"

Shane chokes, just a little, and Brendon grins, biting his lip. He can do jerking off. 

"Okay," Shane says, after a minute. "Hold on, I'm just getting in line."

"I'm starting now," Brendon says, because he is, and he imagines Shane with his hat pulled down low over his hair, phone to his ear, emptying his shopping cart and trying not to let on that Brendon's jerking off and telling him about it. "You wanna hear about the show?"

"I always want to hear about the show," Shane says. In the background Brendon can hear the electronic beep of the register, the low hum of late night in the grocery store. 

"Really?" Brendon asks, hand wrapped tight around his dick. He's dry but he doesn't care; his skin is slick with sweat and his t-shirt's sticking to him. He wants to go to a club and stay on the dance floor for a couple of hours, have a few more beers and let the music swallow him up. He wants to come home and fuck Shane. "Fuck, it was awesome," he says. "The noise, Shane, it makes me feel like I'm walking on air." He fists himself, and the tail-end of the adrenaline courses through him, nerve-ends prickling in anticipation, the ride of his fucking life. Playing on stage is like the best fucking foreplay in the world. All those people shouting their name, it's like an instant boner. "Like just before you come," he goes on, and Shane's humming down the phone at him, warm and electric and the sound slides straight to Brendon's dick. He imagines the guy behind the register, working late nights and unaware of the way Brendon knows the curve and taste of Shane's dick. "That punch to the gut, Shane, it feels like that. Like the best fucking hit of your life."

"Brendon -" Shane says, and Brendon feels a rush of something hot and dark tremble beneath his skin as he realizes that Shane sounds kind of wrecked. "Don't say anything for a minute," Shane says. "Hang on."

Brendon tips his head back against the wall and breathes. He squeezes his balls, scratching them lightly, tip of his finger rubbing at the underside of his dick so that his breath catches in his throat and he imagines Shane's fingernails against his skin. He can hear Shane speaking, the beep of the register, the squeak and electronic hum of the automatic doors and the shift in the atmosphere as Shane heads outside into the parking lot.

"Fuck," Shane says, softly. There's a breeze, and it echoes down the phone line. "Fuck, do you have any idea what you do to me?"

_No_ , Brendon thinks. "Shane," he says. "Want you to come here and suck my dick."

"Tell me what you're doing," Shane says. "I'm putting the food in the car."

"Jerking off," Brendon says. "So hard."

Shane just makes a strangled, desperate kind of a noise. "Brendon Urie," he says. "Fuck. Tell me jerking off in the parking lot is a stupid fucking idea."

_It's a stupid fucking idea,_ Brendon thinks. "I wish you were," he says. "I love it when you come."

"I love it when you come on me," Shane says. He shuts the trunk and then opens the door; Brendon listens to the change in air pressure as he shuts the door behind him. "Okay," Shane goes on. "If I get arrested for public indecency then you're going to have to fly back and come bail me out, okay?"

"Oh fuck," Brendon says. "You're really going to-"

"You have no idea how close I came to just whipping my cock out in the middle of the store," Shane says. "If they'd arrested me I would have just said, my boyfriend is hot, and jacking off down the phone. You try and resist."

"If you'd shown them a picture of me they'd have understood," Brendon says, but his brain keeps repeating _my boyfriend, my boyfriend, my boyfriend._ It's been five weeks and six days and no one's said that yet. No one has ever said that about Brendon. Shane sounds unconcerned about the whole boyfriend thing. He's seemed laid back about it since the beginning, which Brendon finds kind of odd because it's all Brendon can think about: what this means, what this is, if there's a way that they can keep it. If there's a way Brendon can keep Shane, where they get to have this without Shane ending up wanting to get rid of him, just like everyone else. 

"No way," Shane says. "You're all mine. Fuck, I can't believe I'm doing this. Am I doing this?"

"Undo your zipper," Brendon says. Put your hat in your lap in case anyone's going to come see. Pretend you're just having a conversation with -" _your boyfriend_ "-me."

"Don't want to," Shane says. "Just want to jerk off. Don't care if I'm caught. Just want you." He sounds breathless and wound tight and the shift is weird and hot and Brendon's breath catches. He fucks his hand, tight and hot.

"You want to," Brendon says. "You want to get caught. Have you got a thing for public sex you never told me about?"

" _Fuck_ ," Shane says. "No. Maybe. Yeah -"

"We can go to the beach," Brendon says. "When I get back. In the middle of the night we can go and I'll fuck you. You can fuck my mouth. Whatever. We'll do anything. Right there on the beach."

"Shit," Shane says, breathlessly, and Brendon can hear the familiar sounds of Shane jerking off, breathless and out of time, voice higher pitched than normal. Everything he does, he does in a major key. "Would you—can we?"

_Anything,_ Brendon thinks, because he doesn't really believe it'll happen. He doesn't believe in anything, really, because everything changes, and everyone moves on. Spencer doesn't, but then Spencer's his best friend and tells Brendon he's staying put all the fucking time, just in case Brendon's forgotten, or lost his memory, or whatever. Brendon doesn't forget but Spencer doesn't stop telling him, either. Brendon believes that Spencer means it, even if he doesn't believe that it's the truth. 

Brendon doesn't know what the truth is when it comes to him and Shane, but he does know that it feels a lot like Shane's slipped through Brendon's defenses in a way that no one else ever has. Not even Spencer, and Spencer knows more about Brendon than anyone else has ever managed to. He doesn't know how Shane's gotten so close. It's scarier than Brendon anticipated, having someone get close enough that finding out all the things that Brendon keeps so secret and locked away is a possibility and not just a fear. He digs his nails into his thigh and says, "Keep talking, fuck. Tell me -" If Shane's talking, then Brendon doesn't have to listen to the voice inside his head, the one that says, _this is the way this goes_. 

"It's not a thing," Shane says, breathlessly, but Brendon thinks that it is. 

"It doesn't matter," Brendon says, and he rolls his balls in his fist, squeezing them. He hisses in a breath, the pain too sharp, his attention elsewhere, on Shane jerking off in a parking lot. "Tell me anyway."

"Yeah," Shane says. "You get me so fucking hard, B. Fuck, I wish you could see."

"If I was there I'd go down on you," Brendon says, impulsively. "Right now. You think we could get away with it?"

"Wouldn't care if we didn't," Shane says, and Brendon would, he knows he would. Shane would too, but right now he's locked in a bathroom stall and Shane's the one taking the risks. It's not that Brendon doesn't take risks, but he's not taking this one, not tonight. The relief that it's not him makes the sweat slide in between his shoulder blades, hot and fierce. He shakes his head. "I'd go down coming."

Brendon snorts. "That's what I love about you," he says, and then he freezes, because he said it, said _love_. It just slipped out and he hadn't meant it. "I didn't -" he stops, hand still. His heart beats fast. 

"I know," Shane says, equally quickly. The tension's back again, right there between them, taut like a wire, hundreds of miles between them and Brendon feeling the weight of every one. "It doesn't matter," Shane says. "Stop it. Just. I'm jerking off in a parking lot, Bren. Don't fucking freeze up on me. Stay with me."

"I'm staying," Brendon says, but he isn't. He's somewhere else, and the slick slide of sweat against his skin feels cold and a little terrifying.

"Don't freak out on me," Shane says again, and Brendon nods, like Shane can see.

"I'm still here," he says. "Still jerking off." He moves his hand automatically, biting his lip. He doesn't - he feels like an idiot. He screwed up. 

"Tell me," Shane says. "Tell me your fantasy. Tell me what you want to do to me. What you'd do to me if you were here. If we were at home. Anywhere." He sounds urgent and kind of fierce and Brendon loves it when Shane gets fierce, his brow puckered, his stupid hat pulled down low over his ears. He wants to kiss him, lean in and press his lips to Shane's cheek. That's what he wants, this moment, right now. He wants that. To kiss Shane, to see his brow soften and his mouth curve into a smile. 

"To kiss you," Brendon says. "I want to kiss you. I want to fucking kiss you."

"Oh god, Brendon," Shane says. "Me too. I just want to make out with you all the fucking time."

"Me too," Brendon says, and it's a truth, but not _the_ truth, and he just—he wants to make out with Shane. "I just want to make out," he says. "You and me." He's jerking himself off again, and so is Shane, he can hear him, loud and breathless. Shane can't keep quiet. Brendon's been hearing him jerk off since they moved in together, and he used to lay on his back and not touch himself and just listen, like that made it okay. 

"We can when you come home," Shane says, like it's a promise. 

"Yeah," Brendon says, and he tips his head back and closes his eyes. "Just you and me," he says. "Gonna come, Shane." He doesn't know how he got so close to the edge without realizing, but he has, he's here, right on the edge and it feels like that moment before the rollercoaster drops, that split second of realization that that's what's coming. Expectation curls around him, tight and hot, and then he's coming, all over the toilet and the seat and his fist. 

"So hot," Shane says, when Brendon's able to tune back in to something that isn't the way his heart is pounding. All Brendon can focus on is the sound of Shane's hand on his cock. He wants to suck him off, have Shane's cock in his mouth, that taste that's all his. Brendon thinks about sex all the fucking time, and he thinks about Shane all the time, and right now what he wants more than anything in the world is to be back at home with Shane. 

"Want to come home," Brendon says, and he means it. He doesn't care about the second show tomorrow, or the flight or the interviews or whatever else they've got on their schedule that he's forgotten about. He wants to go home, to Shane. It's not like things are going to make more sense there - Brendon doesn't know how to be in a relationship and at some point Shane is going to figure that out for real and that's going to be it - but right now he wants to be where Shane is. 

"I know," Shane says. "Want you here too." 

"Are you going to come?" Brendon asks, because if he says anything else it's going to be a secret, something he wants to keep locked up inside. He wants his secrets to stay secret. He wants to keep Shane as long as he can. 

"Yeah, baby," Shane says, and Brendon can hear the warmth in his voice, the grin. "Yeah, just for you."

"Please," Brendon says, and Shane's breathing heavily now. He's near the edge. 

"Oh, fuck," Shane says, and then he's coming, high-pitched and desperate, and Brendon wants to be there to lick the come off his stomach and curl up behind him so that his dick's nestled against Shane's ass. 

"I gotta go," Brendon says, quickly, because sometimes he thinks about the future, and the two of them and he's so scared it's not going to happen that he can't even let himself think about it. "There's chicken. Zack won't stop Spencer from eating it all. That dude eats like a horse after he comes."

"No privacy on a bus, huh," Shane says, lazily wrecked. "I think I got come on the seat. How can I take it in to get valeted now? They're going to know I came on the seat."

"They're going to think you're hot stuff," Brendon says. He wipes himself down with the last of the toilet roll, dropping it in the bowl. He needs a shower and a sleep and a good fuck. "Just like me."

"You're hot stuff," Shane says. "The hottest."

Brendon fights the urge to sing Donna Summer to Shane over the phone. "I gotta go," he says again. "And you've got to get home."

"Yeah," Shane says. "Why don't you call me when you get in?"

"It'll be late," Brendon says. "You'll be asleep."

"I'll be awake," Shane says. "I've got a ton of editing to do. I'll sleep later. Call me."

Brendon lets out a breath. "Go home," he says. "Clean up. I'll call you when we get in from the club."

Shane doesn't say anything for a moment, and Brendon listens to him breathe. He thinks, _this is what this feels like_. He doesn't want to hang up. 

"I think Zack's yelling for me," he lies. He thinks Shane can tell he's lying. It doesn't matter.

"Okay," Shane says. "Stay safe, kid."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "You too," he says. "Drive carefully." He sounds like his mom, but he can't say what he wants to, so this will have to do. "Don't get hit by a truck."

"Don't -" Shane starts. "Go have fun at the club," he says, and Brendon's left wondering what Shane was going to say. "Get drunk and dance."

"Yeah," Brendon says, and he sighs. "I'll call you when I get in."

He hangs up, and lets out a breath, long and a little ragged. He takes a couple of minutes washing up, splashing lukewarm water on his face and staring into the mirror. 

He doesn't check the countdown clock on his phone. 

~*~

(five weeks, eight days)

Their flight lands mid-afternoon, and Brendon stumbles of the plane disorientated and starving. He's so tired of airplane food, and flights where something goes wrong so they all get are tiny stale packs of mini-brownies and two packets of complimentary peanuts because they can't heat the food up. 

"I'm going to complain," Spencer says, lazily, and Brendon knows that he won't, but he joins in the general agreement. They're all starving, and Brendon hates peanuts. 

"Fuck, yeah," Brendon says. "Can we go get some food now?"

"We're almost home," Spencer tells him, but he's wavering. 

Brendon wants the biggest burger he can find, with all the stuff that goes with it. He kind of wants one of those giant starters with one of everything, mozzarella sticks and wings and jalapeño poppers and onion rings. He wants beer. He really wants a fucking beer. "Let's go get some fucking food," he says. "Home's too far away."

"Oh yeah, baby," Zack says. "I'm with you."

"As you should be," Brendon says, and they spend their time by the luggage carousel tapping their feet and waiting for their stuff and telling each other exactly what they're going to order to go with their beers. It feels good. 

~*~

One beer turns into three beers turns into five beers. Food turns into extra bowls of fries and some ESPN Classic game on the big screen, and suddenly Brendon has an opinion on football, which is kind of news to him. He gets in a fight with Zack about something that Brendon clearly has no clue about, but he doesn't care because bickering with Zack is one of the great things in life, and Brendon's never giving it up. Sometimes Zack gets red-faced and way too loud and he hits the table with his fist, like that's going to change Brendon's opinions about a sport he could care less about. When Zack's a few beers down he forgets that Brendon has no interest in football, other than to drive Zack and Spencer crazy. 

He's half way through an impassioned debate whether playoffs really ensure the best teams play each other, or whether they're just a way for an inferior team to cheat their way to a championship, when his phone buzzes on the table. He's still arguing when he clicks _answer_ , and Shane's picture dances across his screen. 

"Hey," Shane says. He sounds - Brendon doesn't know. Kind of quiet. 

"Hey," Brendon says, over the noise of the bar. "Did you know that Zack is wrong approximately ninety-seven point five percent of the time?" Zack punches him in the arm. 

"That sounds about right," Shane says, but he doesn't laugh, and something drops in Brendon's stomach. 

"How's things?" Brendon asks, since _are you okay_ seems a little too close to inviting Shane to tell him what he's done wrong. 

"Cool," Shane says. "Fine, whatever. I don't know. I mean—I checked that your plane landed on time, and then you didn't get home, so I just thought I'd make sure you hadn't died, or missed it, or whatever."

"Still not dead," Brendon says, weakly. "Sorry. The airplane microwave broke, and all we had to eat was peanuts, so we grabbed some food."

"It's fine," Shane says. "I'm not checking up on you. Well, a bit, maybe."

"I'll come home now," Brendon says. "I'll grab a cab." He fumbles for his stuff, his jacket and his wallet and his backpack. Their cases are a haphazard pile on the floor of the bar. Maybe this wasn't their best idea. It's a good thing that Tony took most of their kit over to the studio space instead of coming out with them for food, there would have been no room for anyone else in the bar if that had been the case.

"Seriously," Shane says. "I didn't call you to tell you to come home, B. You can do what you want. I was just seeing where you were, that's all."

"I want to come home," Brendon says, and it's the truth. All this time away from Shane, all this time _wanting_ , and here he is less than an hour away and he's fighting with Zack over something he doesn't even care about. Spencer's watching him sympathetically, and Brendon focuses his attention on the table instead. 

"Brendon," Shane says. "Stop panicking, it's fine. We're fine. Hang out with your friends."

"I want to hang out with you," Brendon says, scratching his fingernail down a groove in the table top. That is, he thinks, what that ache in his chest is. It's the part of him that misses Shane. "I'm going to get a cab."

Shane lets out a breath. "Okay," he says. "So long as you know you don't have to."

"I know," Brendon says, but what he knows is kind of mixed up and backwards, so it's kind of a lie. 

~*~

When Brendon gets in, Shane's car is gone from the driveway and Dylan isn't waiting for him inside. A note on the table by the door says, _taken D to the park. Back soon._ In the kitchen, there's a bag of take out containers and a half eaten one by the sink; green Thai curry, Shane's favorite. The cartons are lukewarm at best, and Brendon rubs at his face with his fists and thinks, _fuck_. 

He dumps his bags on the table and calls Shane. 

"You got food," he says, when Shane answers. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Shane says. "I'll be home in two minutes, I'm just driving. We'll have it for breakfast instead." Brendon loves take out for breakfast. His stomach rumbles. 

"I'm an asshole," Brendon says. 

"You are not," Shane says. "I didn't even tell you I was getting food, you're hardly an asshole because you missed something you didn't know about. Stop beating yourself up, fuck. It's no big deal, I just picked it up on my way home."

Brendon nods, miserably. He wants to say, _don't break up with me_. "How's Dylan?" he asks, instead. 

"Pretty excited to see you," Shane says, and grins. "Yeah, baby." Brendon thinks he's talking to the dog, and when Dylan barks, he's proved right. "Kind of like me," Shane adds, and Brendon lets out a breath. 

"Me too," he says. "Drive faster. But don't die."

"I'll cross it off my to-do list," Shane says, but he sounds like he's smiling. "How was the flight?"

"Shitty," Brendon says. "I motherfucking hate peanuts."

"I know," Shane says. "How do you feel about blowjobs?"

"Hmmm," Brendon says, and he pretends to ponder. "I feel -" he thinks he can hear a car on the street outside and his heart beats a little faster, a little louder. "I feel pretty good about them."

"That's good," Shane says, and it is his car outside, Brendon can hear him. "I was thinking that could be number one on our to-do list. What do you think?"

"Well," Brendon says, and he bites his lip to keep from grinning, because he can hear the car door slam and Dylan barking, and then the front door opens and Brendon drops his phone down on the counter. "I kind of like that idea," he calls down the hall, and Dylan darts in, bouncing up onto her back legs, paws on Brendon's stomach. She barks, over and over, and Brendon's really missed her. He drops down to his knees and wraps his arms around her neck, letting her lick his throat. "Hey, girl," he says. "You miss me?"

"She did," Shane says, from the doorway. He's in a white shirt and jeans, no hat. He drops his keys down on to the table and Brendon clambers awkwardly to his feet, one hand to the top of Dylan's head. 

"Hi," Brendon says, and he's trying to stop himself from smiling but it's failing, because it's _Shane_. His stomach twists, in a good way, and Brendon bites his lip. "Hi."

"Hi," Shane says, and he's grinning too, wide and bright. 

"You bought dinner," Brendon says. 

"Ah," Shane says. "No. I bought breakfast. Early. Come here and kiss me."

"Okay," Brendon says, and when he crosses the kitchen, Dylan comes too, nose pressed to Brendon's thigh. Brendon steps into Shane's arms and touches his mouth to Shane's; he tastes like Pringles, which means Shane's been eating in the car again. "Did you leave any for me?" he asks, and Shane laughs, wrapping his arms around Brendon's shoulders and dragging him in for a hug. 

"No," he says. "Fuck, I've missed you."

"Same," Brendon admits, and he can't admit more, so he kisses Shane again. 

~*~

They end up in bed, which is Brendon's favorite place in the world, so long as Shane's there. Dylan's not speaking to either of them, which is the only downside. She's sitting at the top of the stairs, whining, and Brendon feels like the crappiest pet owner in the world. They can hear her through the closed bedroom door. "Shane," he says. "She's sad."

"She'll be sadder if she comes in here and has to witness us having sex," Shane points out, but then Shane is naked and sprawled across the sheets and Brendon has just had his cock in his mouth, so Shane isn't exactly in a position where he could go out into the hallway to placate Dylan anyway. "I spent all day hanging out with her. We bonded, it was awesome."

"And now _we're_ bonding," Brendon says, playing with Shane's balls. He has no idea whether Shane likes having his balls played with, but Brendon does, so he does it anyway. 

"Dylan and I didn't bond like this," Shane says, kind of breathlessly, as Brendon rolls his balls in his fist. "Fuck."

"That's good," Brendon says. "I don't think we could have sex anymore if I found out you'd cheated on me with the dog."

"Oh my god," Shane says. "Shut up, please. Why isn't my dick in your mouth anymore?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Stop being so demanding," he says. "I'm going to come on your face in a minute, stop rushing me."

Shane lets out a long, low groan. "Jesus," he says. "If you had any idea what you do to me."

"I've got a pretty good idea," Brendon says, fist circling Shane's erection. He doesn't dare meet Shane's eyes because he's also got a pretty good idea what Shane does to _him_ , and he's not sure he can cope if he knows they have different ideas about that. 

"Blow me," Shane says, and Brendon grins. 

"I thought I just did," he says, even though he'd pulled off before Shane had come, because Dylan had taken up whining outside their door. 

"More," Shane begs, and Brendon leans in for a kiss, sliding his tongue messily into Shane's mouth. 

"More?" Brendon asks, pulling away. 

" _More_ ," Shane says, desperately, and Brendon ducks down so that he can take Shane's dick in his mouth. 

Nothing's as good as this. Nothing. 

~*~  
(six weeks, four days)

Dylan's crept into the bedroom at some point during the night, and when Brendon wakes up needing to use the bathroom, she's sprawled out along the foot of the bed, face pressed up against Shane's foot. She whines when Brendon pushes the covers back, and he scritches her in between her ears. 

She's asleep again before Brendon's even finished petting her. Shane hasn't moved, but then Shane can occasionally pretend to be the deepest fucking sleeper Brendon's ever come across. Brendon's pretty sure he could plug in his guitar and Shane would sleep through it if he'd gone to bed tired enough. 

Brendon stretches and heads into the bathroom to pee. It's early, but not early enough that it still counts as the middle of the night. It's morning, and sunlight streams lazily through the gaps in the bathroom blinds. Brendon's still sleepy but not enough that going back to bed and falling asleep sounds like that good an idea. He's hungry, and anyway, he feels kind of weird going back into Shane's bedroom now that he's woken up. He's never sure if he's supposed to stay there all the time, or if he's supposed to go back to using his bedroom some of the time. He's not sure if having sex with Shane before they fall asleep means that Shane wants him to stay the whole night. He's tired of not having all the answers. 

He's tired of not having _any_ of the answers. 

He runs his hands desultorily under the faucet and then heads downstairs to the kitchen. He can make pop tarts, he thinks, and put the coffee on. He likes his coffee really milky, and sweet, so he raids the fridge for milk to warm while he dumps a couple of pop tarts in the toaster. 

The thing is: Brendon is a good cook. He's probably a bad chef, and he's certainly a lazy cook—he prefers eating to cooking—but he can actually cook. He makes great coffee and he can do excellent eggs and when he's home his mom always sweet talks him into making her breakfast. 

There are eggs in the fridge, he notices. Eggs, and bagels, and a ton of other stuff that adds together to make the finest breakfast in all the land. He really likes how his mom smiles at him when he sets the table for the two of them when he's at home; how they share breakfast and talk about stupid stuff and it's this nice, secret thing that they do, just the two of them, after Brendon's dad leaves for work. It's one of the few things that Brendon can think of that he can do to make people happy that doesn't involve being on stage. 

~*~

He doesn't know what Shane wants for breakfast, so he makes it all. 

~*~

"Hey," Brendon says, sneaking back under the covers and pressing his mouth to Shane's. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Nrgh," Shane manages, eloquently. "B?"

"Morning," Brendon says, again. Now that it's come to it, he feels kind of stupid. He's dumped the breakfast tray on the floor by the bed, and now he kind of wants to pretend it isn't there and just make out with Shane instead. 

"Coffee," Shane says, as Brendon darts in for another kiss. A _pretend I haven't made you breakfast_ kiss. His heart's beating fast but Shane is hot and they're kissing, so. Urgh, Brendon feels stupid. "You taste like coffee."

"Uh-huh," Brendon says, and kisses him again. 

"I want coffee," Shane says, distractedly. He kisses Brendon back, and again, and then again. "No, seriously, coffee. I can smell it."

"I made coffee," Brendon admits. "It's uh," he points to the floor, and Shane peers over the edge of the bed. 

"Brendon," Shane says, a moment later. He sounds a lot more awake all of a sudden. "There is a fuck ton of breakfast foods on a tray."

"Yeah," Brendon says. "I, uh. I made you breakfast."

"You made me all of the breakfast," Shane says. "I know I eat a lot—"

"I didn't know what you wanted," Brendon tells him, quickly. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"Wow," Shane says. "This is amazing."

"And dumb," Brendon says, brightly. "You want to eat?" He leans over Shane to reach over and pick up the tray, but Shane grabs his arm. 

"And _kind_ ," Shane says, softly, and tangles his fingers in Brendon's. "I don't think anyone's ever brought me breakfast in bed before."

Brendon can't really believe that. Shane's awesome, and there's probably been a whole stream of people bringing Shane amazing things to eat, for years. "It's just eggs," he says. "And some pancakes. And a bagel, if you wanted that instead of the pancakes. I didn't know. There's cereal, too, if you didn't want any of the other stuff."

Shane tugs him into a kiss that tastes too much like sleep to be perfect, but Brendon goes easily, letting Shane kiss him down into his lap. "It's just right," he says, and then he grins. "I can't move," he says. "I'm trapped here, so you're going to have to feed me."

Brendon bites his lip to keep from grinning. "I could move," he says, making to roll off him, but Shane pins his hips in place. 

"No," he says. "I like you just where you are."

Brendon's skin feels hot and he can feel his cheeks flushing. "Okay," he says, ducking over the side of the bed to reach for the tray so that Shane can't see his embarrassment. "Where do you want to start?"

"With you kissing me?" Shane says, sliding his hands up Brendon's sides. "And then bacon. You should feed me bacon."

"Sexy," Brendon says, but he's shivering because he _does_ feel sexy. Sexy and hot and weird inside, like this is something special. It's just breakfast, but they're having it in bed, with Dylan curled up on the comforter, Brendon in Shane's lap, and it feels - it feels _good_. 

Except for the part where he's never fed anyone bacon before, and it's kind of weird and a little messy and Shane has to push him away a little when it looks like Brendon's trying to overfeed him, but Shane just laughs and tugs him in for another kiss. "Thanks," he says, against Brendon's mouth. 

Brendon tries not to wave the piece of bagel and eggs he's got in his hand too dangerously. "You're welcome?" he says, in between Shane's kisses. 

"This was -" Shane kisses him again. "This is really cool, B."

And, well, _yeah_. Brendon's never done anything like this before, not ever. It feels a lot like something that couples do, people in relationships. Boyfriends. 

Brendon shivers again, and pushes the thought away. For a moment, just for a moment, he forgets to listen out for the ticking of the countdown clock. 

"Feed me," Shane says, with a grin, and Brendon snorts and passes him the bagel. 

"The finest bagel in all the land," he proclaims, sitting back on his heels, and Shane laughs, making gimme hands at the rest of the bagel that Brendon's holding just out of reach. 

"More," he says. "I want more."

_Yeah_ , Brendon thinks. _Me too_.

~*~

(seven weeks, six days)

"We should go out," Brendon says, flopping down onto the couch and letting Dylan come and sit in his lap. Dylan is too big to curl up in the very tiny corners she likes to try and fit herself in, like under Brendon's elbow with her nose pressed up against Brendon's armpit, but she doesn't stop trying. 

"Like a date?" Shane asks, dropping the controller down onto the table after dying particularly horrifically on screen. 

Brendon had been thinking more along the lines of hitting a bar, or grabbing some food with the guys, but both of those things could conceivably be date things if Brendon didn't bother inviting any of their friends. He hadn't actually considered the possibility of an actual date. "I guess?" he says, a little awkwardly, because he thinks that maybe he _should_ have been considering something, just the two of them. 

"Huh," Shane says. "You want to?"

Brendon has been on a whole pile of dates in his life, if he counts the times he met people in bars and clubs and monopolized their attention for the evening and then took them home and got naked with them. He has been on a whole slew of dates if he counts the times he hooked up with Audrey and hung out in her dorm room before going out and sneaking into bars. If he counts the times he's been out with people he's been dating for an evening of hanging out and being with each other, then his date tally is a huge, fat zero.

He isn't, of course, intending on telling Shane that. 

"Sure," he says. "Where do you want to go? There's that new place. On Madison. It has that weird fountain thing outside."

People go on dates to restaurants, he thinks. This is the kind of grown up, adult relationship decision that he can pretend he makes all the time. 

"Is that French?" Shane says. "I guess we could go there. Do you think we can get a booking for tonight?"

"Maybe," Brendon says, with a shrug. "I could call up?" He wonders if there is going to be a thing with the cutlery and the wine glasses and if he's going to have to pick bottle with an appropriate vintage. Brendon likes _beer_. He doesn't really like the taste of wine. Is there going to be a salad course? What if he uses the wrong fork? He's pretty sure this place is really posh. "I'll go call now."

"I'm going to have to get the iron out, aren't I?" Shane says, standing up and dropping a kiss to the top of Brendon's head. "Do you want me to do anything for you?"

"Uh," Brendon says. "I guess? Maybe I could wear a vest, too."

"Hot," Shane says, and leans over the back of the couch so that he can press a kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth. "Can I come home and blow you afterwards?"

"Always," Brendon says, warmly, nipping at Shane's lip with his teeth. He feels strangely unsettled inside, out of place and weird and nervous that he's going to screw up and show Shane up in the restaurant. He lets out a breath and taps his hands against his knees, _I Write Sins_ in a syncopated jazz rhythm. Shane just grins and ruffles his hair.

"Awesome," he says. "I'll look forward to it."

~*~

The date is, to all extents and purposes, a disaster. It's a disaster from the moment they're late leaving the house because Dylan has chewed up Shane's Homer Simpson slipper and there's a sad trail of partially digested yellow fluff all the way down the hallway. It's a disaster when they have to beg for the maitre'd not to give their table away, and instead of the table they'd booked they get one right in back, by the door to the kitchen, and it's a disaster when the menu arrives and it's all in fucking _French_. 

At least in McDonalds in Paris you can point at the menu and figure out what hamburger or big mac was. 

The wine list is incomprehensible, apart from the part where there's no beer that Brendon can see, and everyone else in the restaurant is over forty, impossibly coiffed and most definitely _straight_. 

"B," Shane says, in an undertone. "Do you want to go someplace else?"

"No," Brendon says, miserably. "This is good."

"Okay," Shane says, and Brendon's heart sinks, just a little. "I just figured I'd say, okay, because I have this list in my head of things that are awesome, and you know what's on that list? You being happy. And I'm just saying, you don't look happy."

"I am," Brendon says. "This is great."

Shane wrinkles his nose. "Did I ever tell you how I want a motorcycle?" he says, apropos of nothing at all. "I'm going to get one, I think. You want to go get tacos and drink beer?"

"We're at a restaurant," Brendon says, in an undertone, because the haughty waiter is giving them a haughty look, and Brendon feels uncomfortable and weird and out of place and sort of like he's failed. Shane probably grew up going to places like this. 

"Yep," Shane says. "Are you going to be hurt if I say I think we should go someplace else? It's like - I know you picked it, but I kind of like places that you make you smile and don't make you look like this."

"Like what?"

Shane shrugs. "Like you're about two seconds from freaking out," he says. "Come on, let me take you for tacos. We can go find a club afterwards and I'll blow you in the bathrooms."

"This was supposed to be nice," Brendon says, and his voice catches because if this was a test he's just failed it, big time, because he doesn't want to be here.

"No," Shane says. "Being out with you was supposed to be nice. I don't care about where we go to do that." He pushes his chair back, and holds out his hand for Brendon to take. "Come on," he says. "Let's go find somewhere else."

Brendon swallows awkwardly, and slides his hand into Shane's. They've never done this, held hands in a public place, and his palm sweats. His shirt feels like it's sticking to him. "Sorry," he says, in an undertone, and he knows his cheeks are flushed a dark red. 

"Let's just go somewhere where we can get a beer," Shane says, and when they start to walk out, he doesn't drop Brendon's hand, even though Brendon loosens his grip so that Shane can pull away if he wants to. He just keeps a hold of Brendon's hand even though people are looking at them, and Brendon wants to drop his head. He's never walked out of a place without ordering before. 

"Sorry," he says again, once they get outside and the valet is bringing the car back around. He probably barely had time to park it. 

"Stop apologizing," Shane says. "That place wasn't us. Shall we get tacos? Or something else?"

"Whatever you want," Brendon says, and doesn't look at Shane. He rocks on his heels; he wants to get out of this place and we wants to go now, so he doesn't have to look behind him and see their failed date just laughing at him from behind the frosted glass façade of the French restaurant. 

"Come on," Shane says, nudging him towards the car. "We'll decide on the way."

~*~

What actually happens is that Shane pulls over when they're two minutes down the road, and then he leans in and presses a soft kiss to Brendon's mouth. 

"What was that for?" Brendon asked, because he's blushing and chewing on his lip.

"Because you look hot," Shane says, with a shrug. "Wasn't that maitre'd a dick?"

"I guess," Brendon says. "You're hot too."

Shane just laughs. "Let me -" he says, and then he leans over and covers Brendon's eyes with his hand. "Let me try something."

"This is weird," Brendon says, blinking behind Shane's hand. "What are we doing?" He feels kind of odd; his heart beats a little loud and a little fast in his chest. 

"This," Shane says, softly, and leans in for another kiss, not moving his hand away from Brendon's eyes. 

Brendon kisses him back, intrigued and a little turned on and kind of sexy. He feels—like he's the focus of Shane's attention, like Shane wants _him_. It isn't like he believes that Shane's been lying to him all this time about wanting him, but there's something about this moment that cements it for him. He lets Shane kiss him, over and over again, his hand still acting as a makeshift blindfold. The glow of the streetlights flickers through his fingertips. 

"What do you want to eat?" Shane asks, after a while, lips pressed to the corner of Brendon's mouth. 

"Burritos," Brendon says, without thinking. "And beer."

Shane smiles into his kiss. "Okay," he says, and lets Brendon nibble on his lip, which Brendon really likes. It's weird, not being able to see Shane properly, and having Shane's hand over his eyes, but Brendon feels really kind of sexy. 

"This is—" he says, awkwardly, because he doesn't know how to say, _special_. 

"Weird, I know," Shane says, a little ruefully. He takes his hand away. "Sorry."

"Good," Brendon says. "It's good."

Shane's eyes widen a little at that, but he just smiles and squeezes Brendon's hand. "Burritos," he says, and Brendon nods.

~*~

They eat burritos in a little Mexican restaurant that they've both been to before. The girl who waits their table grins at them and brings them complimentary margaritas; they're mediocre but Brendon licks the salt from Shane's lips and nobody bats an eyelid, even though they are hidden in a booth way in back. 

"There's this bar," Shane says, after they're done with the burritos. 

"Yeah?" Brendon says. 

"A gay bar," Shane says. "I think it's just down the street. That guy who came to fix our fridge said it was pretty cool."

"I didn't know you'd talked to him," Brendon says, rubbing his belly. He'd eaten too much. He didn't care, that burrito had been awesome.

"Yeah," Shane says. "He was okay. He said the bar was cool, though. You want to try it out?"

Brendon hasn't really been to that many gay bars. A few, when they've been out on the road, because he and his friends and his bandmates are pretty laidback and easy about where they went to drink, but he's never been to one as a—as a gay man. With a boyfriend. "Sure," he says. "But if they play shitty music, I'm blaming you."

"Blame the fridge guy," Shane says, and leans in to kiss Brendon's ear. "Let's get the bill."

The bar is kind of loud, and kind of bright, and the music seeps into Brendon's skin even as they're waiting at the bar for drinks. He feels pumped up and bright, his limbs loose and ready. He wants to go on the dance floor, he wants to move to the music. He wants to get up and sing, but he's pretty sure that part at least isn't an option. He wraps his arms around Shane's waist and leans in to press a kiss to the back of his neck. Shane wriggles and grins and slides his hands over Brendon's, anchoring him close. 

"Good choice?" Shane asks, leaning in so that Brendon can hear him over the loud _thump thump_ of the music.

"Perfect," Brendon says, grin wide and bright. "You want to dance with me?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Shane tells him, and he lets Brendon drag him onto the dance floor before they've even gotten to the ordering drinks stage. Brendon presses close and hugs himself to Shane's hips, and Shane drags him in for a kiss. He tastes like margaritas, and Brendon laughs into the kiss, unable to help himself. 

Shane grins against his mouth, and kisses him again. 

~*~

"I should fuck you," Brendon says, "you like that, right? Let's fuck."

Shane snorts. "Dude," he says. "We've just smoked a bowl. Two bowls. You really want to fuck?"

Brendon moves his hand into the air, and waves it back and forth. It feels pretty energetic, considering he's so wasted he can barely move. That shit was some good shit. Shane's friends need to come in from out of town more often. They leave the best _thanks for letting us stay_ gifts ever. "I could fuck," he says. 

"You can't stand up," Shane points out. "You really want to fuck?"

"You like being fucked," Brendon says. He likes to fuck Shane. He really does. 

"Yeah," Shane says, drawing it out so that it hums across his tongue. Brendon wants to kiss him. "Yeah, but, like. Sometimes I just want to like, not move."

"Sex is awesome," Brendon says, miserably. "Don't you want to have sex?"

"I could blow you," Shane says. 

"I could blow _you_ ," Brendon says. "I have a countdown clock on my phone. It's like, beep beep beep _buzzzz_. Lost a life."

"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about," Shane says. He's lazily rolling a joint on his lap, because Brendon and Shane had sat down at lunchtime and had giant subs and talked about whether they should save some of this weed for a special occasion, or whether they should have it all and get so fucked up they couldn't even see straight. They'd voted unanimously for option two, but two bowls in, their bong was kind of screwed and they'd given it up in favor of sharing a joint. "But blow jobs are good."

"Blow jobs are awesome," Brendon says. "Do you want me to blow you?"

"Do you want to blow me?" Shane asks. He always talks slower when he's stoned, smooth like a river or whatever. Brendon can't think straight. This shit is _good._

"You are my boyfriend and you deserve sex," Brendon says, shifting so that he can rest his cheek against Shane's thigh. Shane runs his fingers through Brendon's hair as he licks a stripe across the paper, rolling the joint closed one-handed. Shane has excellent superhero weed powers. His hands smell like weed. Everything smells like weed. 

"Yeah," Shane says, "but do you _want_ to? It's like—it's not a condition of dating me, you know. Sometimes you can just get fucked up and not suck my dick."

Brendon thinks, _boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend_. He'd said it out loud and like, Thor didn't turn up with his hammer or whatever. The world hadn't ended because he admitted he was dating Shane. "I think I like your dick better than I like your drugs," he says, finally. 

Shane laughs, and strokes Brendon's cheek with his fingertips. "You're cute when you're stoned," he says. 

"I'm always cute," Brendon says. If he shifts a little closer his mouth will be right next to Shane's dick. Through his pants, obviously, but that's sometimes just as good. 

Shane keeps on stroking his cheek. "You want to leave the rest of the weed for later?" he asks. His fingers tangle in Brendon's hair, and Brendon wants to stay like this forever, boneless and happy and the house quiet around them. Dylan's out in the yard and their street is always quiet in the afternoons. It's like there's just the two of them left in the world, and Brendon feels strangely, weirdly peaceful. 

"Yeah," he says, finally, and Shane fumbles with the tin and his lighter and the papers, dumping them all on the coffee table next to the dead bong. Then he's back, and both of his hands are touching Brendon's face, and he smells like weed and Brendon wants him to kiss him so much that it's an ache inside of him, an actual _ache_. "Kiss me," he says, and Brendon never asks for anything, just in case the answer's no. He never asks for anything he wants this badly, not ever. 

"I thought you'd never ask," Shane says, softly, and he ducks down to press his lips to Brendon's temple, his cheek, his nose and then, finally, his mouth. The angle's weird and Brendon's kind of uncomfortable, but then his hand is snaking into Shane's hair, holding him close and they're kissing, curled up and fumbling on their living room floor. "I love you," Shane says, so quietly Brendon thinks that he's hearing things. "Just so that you know."

Brendon freezes. The moment stretches out between them, taut and uncomfortable. Shane looks scared. His legs feel like jelly. "What?" he says, pulling away. He thinks he's sweating. 

"Please don't freak out," Shane says. "Please, Brendon. Don't fucking freak out. I shouldn't -"

Brendon wants to cry. "I've got to -" he says, shifting so that he's sitting up. "I have to feed the dog," he says, inanely. He tries to stand up, but that weed was some of the strongest he's ever had in his life. He feels wobbly. Shane tries to grab his hand. 

"Brendon," Shane says. "Please, I'm sorry. Just forget I said it, okay, we can go back to how things were, I'm sorry. Please."

Brendon swallows. "Dylan's barking," he says, which is a lie. He thinks about his phone, the stopwatch counting up and up, about Shane, about how his stomach's in knots and how he's just fucked up the best thing in his life beside his band. "I'm gonna go check on her."

Shane drops his hand back down onto his lap. He doesn't look up. "Okay," he says. His cheeks are flushed and Brendon can't forget how he tasted, just a moment ago, or about how happy he'd felt, just for those few minutes. 

Brendon stumbles as he pushes past the couch, and bites his lip so hard that it starts to bleed. 

~*~

He's outside in the yard with his head in his hands when Shane finally comes to find him. 

"Are you okay?" Shane asks, finally after he's been standing over Brendon for a minute and Brendon hasn't said anything. 

"No," Brendon says, truthfully. He wipes his eyes on the back of his hand, even though he hasn't been crying. His eyes feel dry and sticky and his breath feels caught in his throat. He's so scared he's fucked everything up that his stomach's turning over and over and over, worse than a fairground ride or before they go on in front of a crowd that's not entirely on their side. Worse than anything except losing Shane, because Shane right now is everything, and Brendon just walked out on him. 

"I'm really sorry," Shane says. "I'm such an idiot. I swore I wasn't going to frighten you away."

Brendon feels kind of heavy and dull. "I -" he starts. He has no idea what it is he's supposed to say. "I'm sorry?"

"I just -" Shane says. He sits down next to Brendon on the grass, and wraps his arms around his knees. "It's really hard—to like. Not tell you how I feel. I'm trying not to freak you out. I'm really trying."

"I'm so fucked up," Brendon says, finally. "I don't even know what just happened in there."

"You freaked the fuck out," Shane says. "I freaked you the fuck out."

"No," Brendon says. "This isn't your fault."

"I'm sorry," Shane says, for what seems like the hundredth time. "If I could take it back I would. I really don't want to, like, scare you away. I don't want to lose you."

Nothing makes sense in Brendon's head. The weed's making everything fuzzy and it isn't fair, every single time he thinks he's fucked things up with Shane for real, Shane's still there. Brendon doesn't know how badly he's going to have to screw things up before Shane breaks his heart and leaves. 

Shane very carefully doesn't touch him. "I need you to know," he says, slowly, "that if you don't want this anymore, then you've still got me, okay? As a friend. This isn't an all or nothing deal. We'll work it out."

"Stop it," Brendon says, before he can stop himself. "Stop it, please. I don't want to be without you. Please don't break up with me." He's so close to crying that he can feel his breath catching in his throat. 

"B," Shane says, softly. "Brendon."

"I'm sorry I'm such a fuck up," Brendon says, all in a rush. "I just - I keep waiting for you to figure out that I'm not what you want, that you can do better. I'm just _waiting_ , all the fucking time. I'm so scared of losing you." He can't look up. He feels like his chest is being pulled open and all of this stuff, this stuff he's been trying to keep hidden is just pouring out of him, and it hurts. 

"Oh fuck, Brendon," Shane says. He sounds so sad, and Brendon hates that. He hates people feeling sorry for him. He hates being an object of fucking pity, just because he's a fuck-up. 

"Don't feel sorry for me," he says, and he wonders if this hurts more than the rest of it, asking Shane to leave him. 

"I don't," Shane says. "I just - I just want to be with you, and I hate that you think I don't want it. That I don't want you."

Brendon rests his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around his calves. "I know you want me," he says, finally. "I don't think you're lying. I just think that one day you're going to figure out that you were wrong, is all. That this isn't what you wanted. And I don't know whether I can do that, you know. Deal with it when you go."

Shane breathes out slowly, through his nose. "Things come to an end, sometimes, and sometimes they don't," he says, carefully. "And maybe it's like, I don't know, tossing a coin, or whatever, figuring out which way things are going to go. I guess I'm asking you to -" he pauses. "I'm asking you to give it a shot. With me. Trust me not to hurt you."

Brendon takes a deep breath. "I can't say what you want me to say," he says, without looking up. "I can't say—I can't say it back." He thinks, _I think I'm in love with you_. 

"Not yet?" Shane asks. "Or not ever?"

"Not yet," Brendon says, softly, and Shane's breath catches. 

"I can deal with that if you can," Shane says, finally. "Can you deal with me saying it to you?"

"I've never done this before," Brendon admits, like that's a secret that Shane hasn't figured out yet. "I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing and I keep screwing up."

Shane shrugs. "We're figuring our shit out. It takes time," he says. "You still didn't answer my question."

Brendon remembers that flash of something when Shane had said it - _joy_ , he thinks - before the fear had kicked in. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. I can deal."

Shane lets out a breath. "I don't want you to go," he says. "I want to make this work."

"I know," Brendon says, and he does. He really does. "I want that too. Even when I'm screwing up that's what I want. You."

"Can I—?" Shane asks, and he holds his hand out awkwardly. Brendon shrugs, and Shane slides his arm around Brendon's shoulders. "I hate it when you get freaked out." 

"I know," Brendon says, leaning in to Shane's side. "Me too."

"How about we just try and like, I don't know, actually talk?" Shane says. "That could be a plan, right? For the future?"

Brendon lets out a tired, kind of desperate-sounding laugh, and rests his head on Shane's shoulder. Over the other side of the yard Dylan noses idly at a flowerbed. "Yeah," he says. "I guess."

"We're not on any kind of schedule, you know," Shane says, after a minute. "For getting this thing figured out between us. It doesn't really matter how long it takes."

Brendon just nods. "Yeah," he says again. "Okay."

"Just so long as you know," Shane says, and he drops a kiss to the top of Brendon's head. Brendon shivers, right down to his toes. 

"I know," he says, and for the first time, he actually thinks that he does.

(00:00:00)

"Did we remember the beer?" Brendon asks, untidily reversing the car into the parking bay by the _clean up after your dog_ sign _._

"Yes," Shane says. "We remembered the barbecue, the beer, the burgers, the dog, each other, the cooler and the bottle opener. We are masters."

"Ketchup?" Brendon asks, hopefully, popping the trunk and pushing open the door. His flip-flops are already sandy and he grabs his hoodie off the back seat for when it gets colder later on. Beach barbecues are that kind of weird mix of breeze from the sea and heat from the fire. It's like a contradiction. Brendon likes that.

"No," Shane says. "Not unless you packed it."

"I didn't," Brendon says. "We have failed in our barbecue mission. It's very sad."

"The saddest," Shane agrees, letting Dylan jump out of the car and onto the gravel. She barks, happily, and runs around Shane's feet before jumping up at Brendon and the cooler. 

"Put it on the list for next time," Brendon says, dumping the rest of their stuff on the ground. "Hey, did we bring anything to turn the burgers over with?"

"Tongs?" Shane makes a face. "Maybe we can just go all old school and poke them with sticks. Fuck. We're so screwed."

Brendon laughs, and leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Shane's mouth. "Good thing I remembered to bring them then, right?"

"Asshole," Shane says, slapping Brendon's ass as he curls his hand around Brendon's waist. "So, you want to hang out, wait until it gets dark and then let me blow you?"

"You have the best ideas," Brendon says. His stomach's growling because it feels like a million years since lunch, but right now he's pretty sure he could have some sex and hold off eating a while longer. "Let's do it now."

Shane rolls his eyes. "How about after we've eaten, dumbass," he says, but Brendon's laughing and pushing him back against the hood of their car, Dylan nosing at his knee. 

"Okay," he says, grinning, and curls his fingers into Shane's hair, cooler by their feet. He kisses Shane quickly. "But when you start complaining that you haven't come in like, eight hours, don't bug me. I totally offered."

"You did," Shane agrees, and palms Brendon's ass, just for a moment. It's early evening and the beach is relatively empty, save for a few dog walkers and older couples. The surf is shitty here, and the beach doesn't exactly offer much other than a few rocks. It's too far from the nearest house to be that popular, which is exactly why they've made the long drive north to hang out here, instead of somewhere closer to home. There's barely anyone around to watch them make out, and hardly anyone who's going to get in the way of Dylan chasing a Frisbee or their stupid barbecue. There's just them, and dinner, and the sunset and a couple of beers. 

"Hey," Brendon says, resting his head on Shane's shoulder. 

Shane kisses the top of his head. "You okay?" he asks. 

He means, Brendon thinks, _are you happy?_ For a moment he can feel his phone in the pocket of his shorts, pressing up against Shane's thigh. The stopwatch says zero, and it has for a while now. He nods. "Yeah," he says. He grins, and leans in for a kiss. "I am."

[End]


End file.
